Toxic
by East-Coast-Invictus
Summary: Modern. Our two worthy captains have faired somewhat well for over 400 years. Here is a small look at one of their competitions over the course of time.


(Be mindful this is rated T for a reason – safety and content.)

"In a single word…damn."

The two coroners stood over the beaten, bruised, and holey cadaver of recently deceased Honoré Barbary. Six hours ago, the insurance mogul had been reported missing. Four hours later, authorities found the man dead in a back alley about a block from his very own flat, sitting up against the outside wall of building. He had been shot multiple times and rather indiscriminately. Police and CSI had a mess to clean up, and the dozens of ambulance chasers and media had not helped.

The younger, less experienced of the two coroners marveled at the damage, clutching a clipboard to his chest. Whoever had killed Barbary had not liked him at all, he surmised. The swollen, discolored features of the cadaver looked nothing at all like the smarmy, charming visage he had seen on television. His superior, a stern middle-aged woman with a streak of grey in her bun, merely regarded the corpse with a jaded expression, lips pursed. "I suppose so," she said, pulling back one of the dead man's eye lids to examine the large hemorrhage hiding most of the pupil. She released a perfunctory sigh through her nose and let the eye close. "Well, looks like we're done here, Brooks. Clean up." She turned from the examining table, removing her bloodied gloves as she aimed for the sink. Brooks nodded and deposited his clipboard on the nearest countertop. He tossed a sheet over the cadaver, grabbed the handle, and pushed the wheeled table out of the room.

Several minutes later, Brooks and the elder coroner were leaving the city morgue discussing the most recent episode of _LOST_.

They thought nothing else of Mr. Barbary.

The chilled, harsh room which contained the body boxes was draped in silence. The various cadavers and remains of the deceased, young and old, rich and poor, were quiet in their resting places. However, not all of these late identities desired to be so mum. The sound of someone kicking metal could be heard inside of Mr. Barbary's drawer and, after some sizable effort was put into it, the thing was kicked open. The man inside pushed it all the way open, gasping and coughing as he rolled off onto the floor in a tangle of tingling limbs and cover sheets.

Mr. Barbary, for it was indeed Mr. Barbary, sat up with some difficulty. Shivering like a leaf and teeth chattering madly, he looked around at his surroundings. By now, the wounds on his face and chest looked half-healed; the bruises were yellowing, the bullet holes closing to form little pink divots of scar tissue on his chest and abdomen. The hemorrhage had not quite left his eye, so part of the bluish iris was tinged with red.

Perhaps he knew where he was or perhaps he wanted to find out, but Mr. Barbary, giving himself a rousing shake, heaved himself to his feet. A rattling cough tore its way from the depths of his chest. No doubt this was the result of the still-healing bullet hole in one of his lungs. Gathering a sheet about himself, Mr. Barbary then made hastily for the exit.

--

At first the name went in one ear and then out the other but after a moment, Jack paused in the reading of the _New York Times_ to register what he'd just heard. He swiveled on his bar stool to look at the television mounted on the far wall of the diner. The new anchors were reporting the murder of insurance mogul, H. J. Barbary. A recent photo of the man surfaced through the talk as his name scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

Jack mouthed the name several times, brow furrowing. After a moment, he turned back to the bar, chuckling. "Bugger," he muttered with a slight amount of delight. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a small pad of paper and an ink pen. Flipping through the yellowed pages, Jack stopped on one in particular, divided into two by a sloppy line of ink. One side had several dozen Xs. The other had a little less.

Indulging in a triumphant smile, Jack marked with a flourish an X on the side with the lesser amount.

--

AN: A meaningless little oneshot I've had sitting around unfinished for ages. It's still unfinished; I had planned on making it longer, but I suppose I'm trying something different. Meh. Anyway, hope you all liked it. It's kind of a little filler on how Jack and Hector have faired since my other modern-POTC, Some Things Never Change.

Adieu!


End file.
